The Box
by Red River
Summary: There was nothing very intimidating about the battered cardboard box resting on the edge of Finch's desk when he returned from the stacks with a few books under his arm. Or, Reese hadn't intended there to be. A short fic for Reese and Finch, and a sweet Christmas surprise. Set in S1. Friendship/pre-slash.


I was feeling bummed about the lack of Reese and Finch interaction in the beginning of season three, so I wrote this short Christmas story for the two of them. It's written to fit into the first season and is more a friendship story than a pairing one, but I consider it pre-slash because I love the dynamic between the two characters. Just a short, sweet story for Reese and Finch; please enjoy.

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**The Box**

There was nothing very intimidating about the battered cardboard box resting on the edge of Finch's desk when he returned from the stacks with a few books under his arm. Or, Reese hadn't intended there to be. Which didn't mean he was surprised when Finch pulled up short, peering at the box from a safe distance of a few feet away. Finch turned in a slow circle, peering around the library with the suspicious skittishness Reese thought was probably natural to reclusive billionaires; he was careful to keep his eyes on the outdated _Harper's_ magazine he wasn't reading, slumped in one of the hard-backed wooden chairs. He felt Finch's gaze settle on his bent head for a moment, and without looking up he knew exactly what little frown had twisted his companion's lips, Finch's blue eyes narrowed and quizzical behind his immaculate lenses. Then there was a little cough, as of someone too polite to actually clear his throat. Reese turned the page and indulged in a private smile.

"Mr. Reese." Finch's voice was stern, but there was something uncertain about it, too, as if he'd been thrown horribly off-balance. "I'm not sure how this is possible, but our base of operations seems to have suffered a small intrusion."

Leisurely, as if he were reading the last words of a very interesting column, Reese folded the magazine closed and looked up at Finch, standing next to the box which now seemed to be waving at them with a small white paw, the scrape of tiny claws on cardboard offset by a chorus of tiny mews. The white paw batted wildly at the elbow of Finch's suit coat. Reese raised his eyebrows, meeting Finch's perturbed stare with a bland smile.

"They're just kittens, Finch."

"Yes, I can see that," Finch told him drily. "What isn't immediately obvious is what they're doing here." He gestured to the library at large, but Reese has a feeling the objection had more to do with their placement on his desk specifically, between him and the keyboard—which was of course exactly why Reese had put them there. It was a game he never tired of, knocking Finch off his game to watch how he'd react.

Reese rolled the magazine into a light cylinder and batted it against his palm. "They just needed somewhere to be for a few hours, until the shelter opens. I thought they could do better than a cardboard box on the corner of Greenwich."

Finch was a subtle read, but Reese had been working at it for some time now; he didn't miss the brief hesitation, the flicker of Finch blinking twice behind his glasses as the situation became clear. He recovered quickly, as he always did, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them against the soft liner of his coat to buy himself a moment.

"Though it may be unconventional, this is still an office, Mr. Reese. Are you sure there's nowhere more suitable?"

Reese let his head drop to one side, pretending disbelief. "Harold. It's almost Christmas." He rose and dropped the magazine onto his unoccupied seat, and then moved close enough to pilfer the books from under Finch's arm, staring into the other man's eyes as he murmured, "Besides—I thought you liked strays."

Finch drew himself up straighter, gaining barely a centimeter in height but putting at least two inches between them. Reese stood his ground, just waiting with a little smile. At last Finch allowed the barest sigh and turned away, abandoning his books in Reese's hands as he took his usual seat and slipped his glasses back on.

"It's December 18th, Mr. Reese," he returned, deliberately ignoring the use of his first name. "You might want to rethink your definition of almost." He reached for the keyboard with his arms skewed to one side, angling his body as far away from the box as he could without unseating himself—but he didn't move it, as Reese had known he wouldn't, and that was enough of a victory for now. Reese slipped a hand into the box, stroking each of the three gray-and-white kittens in turn and scratching the small orange one under its chin; then he set the stolen books just out of Finch's reach, on the other side of the box, and drifted away to stand before the long pane of clear glass Finch used as a corkboard, empty now of all but lingering dry-erase whirls.

Finch had quite a poker face. At the end of the day, though, he was self-taught, and it showed in the few small things he couldn't control, like the rhythm of his typing. Reese looked out the dirty and shuttered window at the quiet streets below, tracing the arc of tinsel hung in the windows across the way, and listened to Finch's distracted fingers faltering on the keyboard, moving far slower than usual, interrupted now and then by a burst of clacking keys as Finch realized his preoccupation and tried to compensate.

"I'm not certain I understand what you're doing here either, Mr. Reese," Finch said after a long minute of fruitless typing. "We don't have a number."

Reese spared a smile for the thin reflection of the other man shining in the glass, watching as Finch lifted his head and gave his back a significant look. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

A tiny huff, as if his words weren't even worth laughing off. "That hardly seems plausible."

Reese clicked his tongue. "You're too hard on yourself, Finch. I think you're very good company."

He couldn't read Finch's expression in the glass, but the clatter of rapid typing at his back was enough to prove he'd gotten a rise out of the other man—what kind, he didn't know. Any reaction at all was good enough for now. Reese leaned back on his heels and looked absently out at the passing cars, watching Finch's reflection out of the corner of his eye.

He hadn't planned to push the kittens on Finch any farther than setting the box on his desk, but apparently, the kittens had other ideas. The library had been quiet for a few minutes, nothing but the eternal clack of the keyboard breaking its dusty silence, when all at once there was an intense scrabbling in the box and a tiny head poked up above the lip of the cardboard, the drowsy blue of its newly open eyes focusing instantly on the man in the nearby chair. Reese decided it must be standing on the other three kittens to reach the top. He watched through the reflection as Finch studied the face of the most brazen intruder, and then extended one index finger and carefully pushed the kitten's head back down, out of sight beneath the cardboard flap. It only took a second for the tiny creature to appear again. This time Finch hesitated, his fingertip pausing in the fluff of orange fur along the top of the kitten's head; then, with all the care of a man disarming an explosive, Finch gave the kitten a little stroke, tracing a soft line down its downy back. He refused to commit more than one finger, but even through the second-rate mirror of the clear glass Reese could tell that something in his face relaxed as he finished the stroke and then started again, from the very crown of the kitten's skull, stopping to give a little scratch right behind one ear.

A loud purr erupted from the tiny kitten, and Finch's hand shot back to his lap, so that by the time Reese turned around fully, giving Finch and the box considering looks in turn, someone might almost have been fooled into thinking the kitten had started purring spontaneously. Then again, the expression on Finch's pinched face, half embarrassed and half annoyed, would have just about anyone think twice. Reese raised an eyebrow.

"Looks like they like you too, Harold."

Finch adjusted his glasses and peered down his nose at the tiny kitten pyramid, two orange paws clinging to the cardboard lip. "I hope you're not equating your approval with that of a cat, Mr. Reese." He stretched his hands out over the keyboard again, but didn't start typing, just flexing his fingers from the joints and staring down at the desk as if deep in thought. "What shelter were you going to take them to?" he asked after a moment, utterly failing to sound as if his interest was academic.

Reese leaned into the edge of the desk, rubbing a callused thumb down the orange kitten's back. "The one on 59th."

Finch pressed his lips together, a small furrow creasing his brow. "There's a small establishment in Brooklyn Heights—a woman runs a private cat shelter out of her home. I can give you the address." Catching Reese's look, he added, in little more than a murmur, "A certain Mr. Crane donates a portion of his salary to her charity every year. Just mention that name…I'm sure she'll have room for them."

Reese smiled. Then he reached out and took hold of one of Finch's wrists, and dragged his hand into the box, settling his cold fingers against warm, soft fur. "Merry Christmas, Harold," he said.

Finch tensed for a moment, but then relaxed, his hand brushing Reese's in passing. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Reese."

Reese was pleased to see that the definition of _almost_ had been expanded.


End file.
